


the secrets that you keep

by ElasticElla



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dom/sub, Episode: s01e05 Coquilles, M/M, Mild Gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:35:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26353540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElasticElla/pseuds/ElasticElla
Summary: At the end of the day, Will’s feet once again take control.Rather than going to Jack, to apologize in action if not word, Will finds himself on Hannibal’s doorstep.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 3
Kudos: 29
Collections: We Die Like Fen 4: We Lived to Die Afen





	the secrets that you keep

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CousinShelley](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CousinShelley/gifts).



> title/mood from lia rose's cover of [talking in your sleep](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UugqRIKqtOw)

“Kitchen still open?” 

Hannibal smiles, doesn’t question his appearance at his door – not aloud. “Always. I was just finishing up the duck, come in.” 

Will follows him to the dining room, silence inviting him to say the first thing that comes to mind. “That sounds simple.” 

He chuckles as Will sits, spooning sauce over the main course. “A crispy duck breast with mango chili glaze, and red beet ginger rice to be precise.” 

“Expecting someone?” Will asks, looking at the picture perfect plates. 

“A hope that it wouldn’t be a solitary dinner. Fulfilled,” Hannibal says, raising his wine in a toast. 

Will goes for the fork and knife instead, Beverly’s words repeating. Unfortunate that she had a point. 

“I need help.” 

“I am at your disposal. With what?” 

“I woke up on my roof.” Will takes another bite of the duck, a most tender fortification. “Dogs barking.” 

Hannibal tilts his head, “You worry they would find your body.” 

He grimaces, “It’s stupid. All I could think of was how long they’d be trapped in the house before someone came. How long before the smell of my rotting corpse would become too much and Buster would break the window. He’d be hurt and…” 

“The dogs would have a final meal?” 

Will flinches, it wouldn’t be their final – oh, it’s a joke. 

“I notice you aren’t drinking,” Hannibal adds. 

“Only when I have to sleep. I can’t…” Will sighs, “You wouldn’t have a suggestion for feeling in control, would you?” 

“Of your body or mind?”

The red wine looks more tempting than ever, and Will busies his hands, finishing up the delicious food. “Either. Both.” 

Hannibal sets down his silverware, “You’re a smart man Will. You know the variations of what I’ll suggest. The question is, which one do you think would be best?” 

Will sighs, knew better than to hope for some miracle solution that would be comfortable. Mentally in control while physically out of it is the obvious answer. 

He says as much, and Hannibal smiles as though he’s performed a small trick. “Very well.” 

“What if I’d said the opposite?” 

Hannibal stands. “I said I was at your disposal Will, I mean it. Shall we?”

His nerves tingle, of course Hannibal sees no reason to wait. It’s better this way, Will can admit it logically, needs to sleep soon. And yet – 

“Or have you changed your mind?” 

He stands up too fast, whacks his knee on the table, dishes rattling. Will winces. Hannibal doesn’t bat an eyelash. Probably anticipated the reaction; Will needs more friends that can’t diagnose him. 

“If you wait in the sitting room, I’ll get restraints.” 

Will blinks. “You have a straitjacket at home?” 

There’s almost a smile in the corners of his mouth. “Rope. A straitjacket would be much too restricting, the first time.” 

He swallows at the presumption, moving into the room. “Alright.” 

Footsteps fade away, and Will actually looks around the room. It’s more for show than use, fancy chairs without comfort, a standing clock with a nigh impossible to read face, and shelves filled with knickknacks. The type of room you’d have if you wanted to prove you were a person, that you – 

Will closes his eyes, sits down. 

This isn’t a crime scene. There’s no need to look. Or imagine as the case may be. 

Shit, he really needs more sleep if this is where his mind is leading him. Can’t be trusted just like his body, and goddammit all. The footsteps return, and Will straightens his back, pushing his glasses up. 

Hannibal has returned with rope. And an undershirt and underwear. Both white. 

“Are those mine?” 

“No. They’re clean.”

Hannibal offers the clothes, and Will takes them. By touch it’s clear they aren’t his, made of some high quality soft cotton. Heat burns in his gut, and it would be so easy to say he is already wearing white. 

Hannibal turns around, facing the bookless bookcase. Will strips down and dons _Hannibal’s_ clothes, and fuck, he can’t think about that. Not how comfortable they are, nor how worn. Can’t be in that kind of head-space before whatever happens next. Balling up his clothes so nothing’s visible but jeans and shoving them to the side, Will sits back on the chair. The room feels colder, chair awkward against bare thigh. 

“Okay.” 

Hannibal turns back, face giving nothing away. Will’s probably emoting enough for both of them anyways. Anxiety and desperation at war, legs tensed. 

“You will tell me if the binding is too much.” 

He jerks his head in a nod, “I’m used to rope. Shipyards.” 

A far softer rope than Will’s ever handled wraps around his left wrist first, anchoring it to the chair’s arm. There’s an accusation on his tongue, grows stronger as Hannibal deftly creates a lattice of ropework between him and the chair’s front half.

Hannibal’s fingertips ghost over his thighs as he secures his knees. Finishes after a final loop around each ankle, and Will can’t look down again. (Doesn’t matter. The image of Hannibal on his knees, of rope against his flesh is cemented in memory.)

Hannibal stands up brushing himself off. “How are you feeling?” 

“Exposed.” 

His lips quirk, a wrong answer. “Try to stand up.” 

“I can’t.” 

“Indulge me,” Hannibal says. 

The bindings tighten as he attempts it, doesn’t do more than shift a millimeter up, a breath really. Bands of pressure across his shoulders and elbows and wrists, knees and ankles. Makes his cock twitch and fuck, he hopes it wasn’t noticeable. 

“Good. We can agree you’ve relinquished control of your body to me.” 

A shiver races down his spine, and Hannibal continues on as if he’s said nothing noteworthy. “Now, for your mind. Do you trust me Will?” 

He wants to roll his eyes, say something pithy about the current state of affairs. But being tied up like this, fuck, it reminds him of college days with Cara. Of how meticulously she’d take him apart and put him back together. 

He doesn’t know that Hannibal would put him back together. Or put him back in order. Which. It must be work getting to him, surely if he thought that he wouldn’t be tied to a chair in the man’s sitting room. 

“Yes.” 

It’s the only plausible deduction. 

Hannibal nods solemnly. “My hands are yours, what would you have me do?” 

Will bites his tongue before he can say something stupid. Hannibal might blur the friendship-therapist line, but surely he doesn’t mean – it’s only an experiment. To prove he’s in control. Not, not what he’s making it out to be. 

“Nothing.” Too abrupt, Will adding on, “It’s awkward to do that.” 

“Would you rather tell me when to stop?” 

His cheeks burn, can’t be mistaking the innuendo there. A dizzying possibility, and Hannibal is back in his space, hand cupping his face. 

“You have a beautiful, if rebellious, mind.” 

“Shut up,” he murmurs, any bite belied by the heat pouring off his face. 

Hannibal smiles, but sure enough, falls silent. Falls between his legs, and Will sucks a loud breath between his teeth. Dear god. 

This time Hannibal’s hands are firm on his knees, sliding slowly up his legs. He meets his eyes, the unspoken challenge loud. But Will doesn’t know if it is to tell him to stop or not to. 

Doesn’t matter. Nothing could make that word come to his lips, not when presented with the alternative. Surreal and overly grand, thumbs tickling, swiping under the underwear’s band. Tantalizingly close. Pressing against the crease of his thigh. Teasingly close, Will amends when he catches the look on Hannibal’s face. 

Holds his breath, afraid the wrong move or blink will whisk away the apparition. His cock is obscene, wetness turning the material translucent, turning his – oh, _Hannibal’s_. 

Possession wraps around him, fuck, Hannibal’s mouth wraps around him, muted through the fabric. His hands pull at the restraints, far more motivated this time. He nearly growls as the rope holds, irritation eaten up by the acceptance that he’s truly trapped. 

It makes him harder in a way that he should probably explore later. Likely with Dr. Lecter, he thinks sardonically. Pleasure swirls in his gut, is all for future treatments or whatever the hell Hannibal is pretending this is. Regardless of reality, he doesn't feel in control, chasing down an orgasm.

Their eyes meet, and Hannibal deliberately swallows, a promise of what could be, his hips jerking up against the rope. It feels impossibly good as he releases, traitorous mind imagining Hannibal’s teeth chomping down on his softening flesh. Of turning him into an angel, snapping his ribs and pulling, elevating – 

“How are you feeling?” Hannibal asks once more, voice hoarse. Nimble fingers untying the rope, businesslike, no lingering touches. He shivers as his groin turns sticky-cold fast, shirt sweated through like a dream’s aftermath. 

Will snorts, echoes his answer from before, “Exposed.”


End file.
